To Be Lonely
by Pendrag
Summary: Grissom was comfortable. Even happy with his daily life. But when the past creeps up on him, how will he adjust?
1. Chapter 1

This would be simple.

No, Grissom amended. They were never simple, but this case seemed remarkably straight forward. Only out of duress had he bothered to take this assignment; Nick and Catherine had teamed up with a DB out in the desert – when wasn't there one? Sara and Warrick had been called to the scene of an accidental shooting, sans shooter. Which led him to the first question he had when looking at the assignment.

Why would a convenience store robbery need CSI?

The crime committed had been amazingly simple. No DB, the thief's face on camera, and plenty of fingerprints. Gil's mental query hung tangibly in the air, though unheard by police in uniforms and street clothes swarming about the quaint convenience store. In a note of irony, he realized that the locale was a familiar one; he drove past it every evening on his way to the lab. From the quaint four gas pumps to the flickering lights in the awning, it felt… cozy. Run down, yet well maintained. Someone definitely loved their work.

"What do you have for me, Jim?" Grissom asked as the detective in question lumbered over. Raking a curious eye over the man, one brow lofted inquisitively. "You're limping."

"The owner," Brass muttered, jerking his thumb in the direction of the store's entrance. "She's a real spitfire, that's for sure. Kicked me in the shin when I turned to talk to the on-scene officer." Gil could only shake his head slightly; wonders would never cease. "Anyhow, she was the only one present in the store when the robbery occurred. Insisted that we call in a CSI."

"Did she, now?"

"Uh huh. Claimed that if we didn't get out of her 'crime scene', everyone was a suspect." Grissom's brows shot up at that statement. Was it another case of someone watching too much prime-time television? He shuddered to even contemplate the thought.

"…_told you to get out of my store!_"

"Charming," Brass commented, shifting from foot to foot in an effort to favor the bruised shin he was surely sporting by now. But Grissom barely even heard him, instead fixing the storefront with a curious and thoughtful expression. The last time he had heard those words…

"_It's not my fault you don't have a sense of humor!" The woman went so far as to point and laugh at the kidney-shaped dish hanging off of his shoulder. While placing a bucket full of water on a cracked door was one of the oldest tricks in the book, filling a specimen dish with thousands of tiny, damp circular pieces of paper was not. They were sticking everywhere!_

"_Nor is it my burden that you cannot understand my propensity for high-brow wit." He had managed a straight face for all of five-seconds, before ruining it with a smirk. "This is not fair. Where's that dust buster?"_

"_You mean the one we took apart last week?"_

"_Oh. Right." Scowling in good nature at the woman, he proceeded to shake loose as many of the dots of paper as possible. What had put her in such a good mood? Rachel, fellow geek and partner in crime, had been out of sorts the last week. But early that evening she had walked into work whistling a merry tune, eventually applying bawdy lyrics to a song that sounded out-dated by several centuries. "Maybe we can borrow the one out of the lab…"_

"_Without a requisition form and a three-week waiting period? As if, buster!" The dark-haired woman grinned at her play-on-words, while he could only groan._

"_That's it. You're not allowed to—" Grissom was cut short as his pager went off. In a scramble of flurrying paper, he managed to grab the infernal beeping item and mute it. Only to hear it go off again. But this time it wasn't him._

_Quickly scanning the scrolling screen, he could feel his jaw slowly descend. One DB, two injured, location was a privately owned store. The name he knew well, and Grissom could only hope that Rachel's page wasn't the same. Judging by the way she darted out of the room and ran down the hall full-tilt…_

_Gil ran after her._

"_Alex! Oh God, where is he!" Grissom stared in shock as the always cool and collected Rachel began shouting, jumping out of the SUV before he had even rolled to a halt. She was calling attention to herself quickly; the boys in blue looked… somber. "Alex!" The woman may have been petite, but there was definitely muscle hiding beneath her skin as she shouldered an officer aside and yanked open the store's door._

"_Alex! No!" Rachel was suddenly shrieking at everyone around her; fighting against those that held her back. "Get the hell out of my store!" Ashen-faces from co-workers quickly gained life, a few people actually shuffling toward the exit as she whirled about face, staring him down._

"_I told you to get out of my store!"_

But that had been a lifetime ago. Rachel had taken a leave of bereavement, never to return to the lab in the few years that Grissom had remained on the west coast. It was as if she had disappeared. And now, to hear those words uttered again, all these years later, brought a chilly mantle to settle on his shoulders. Synchronicity, he told himself. Or tried to tell himself.

"Hey. You all right?" Blinking a bit, Gil shoved the memory aside as Jim peered at him worriedly. "You were a million miles away. Are you getting enough sleep?" Snorting at the detective's temerity to ask such a question, even if they were friends – after a fashion – he only shook his head.

"_Get—out!_"

"Well, she has spirit, I'll give her that. But before any more of the boys end up limping for the rest of the week…?" Brass motioned with an extended hand toward the scene of the crime, nudging Grissom in that direction. He was nearly tempted to hang back and see how things played out; it wasn't often an opportunity presented himself to see an innocent – or so he hoped – person rail against the police for being too close. Not like _this_, anyhow.

"Ma'am, _please_, CSI will be here any minute." The voice was young, likely another new recruit stuck doing midnight duty. One that thought he could change the world with just a few arrests, righting a few wrongs. God, when had he become such a cynic?

"Fine! Then you won't mind leaving until they show up."

Creeping across the threshold of the store, Grissom took a good look about. A display rack had been overturned near the doorway, fresh tracks in a smattering of crushed brownies. To the right was a glass bottle, the label named it some sort of soda, a sticky blue mess with streaks of red left behind. From the spatter on the glass, and where he could see on the floor and door frame, it was likely blood.

On the counter, beside a group of police officers and one upset woman, was the plastic drawer insert that would normally carry the money. It appeared to be mostly empty, excepting a few coins. A store like this couldn't have held more than fifty or a hundred dollars in that drawer; so where was their excess?

"Excuse me. Is there a safe?" Even if his voice was naturally curious, and modulated so not to cause alarm, it cut through the ensuing argument cleanly. All heads turned toward him, while a few police officers seemed to breathe a sigh of relief at his CSI badge. Finally, though, he gained a good look at the woman who had been railing against law enforcement all this time.

Everything about her was… Well, she seemed _normal_. Brown hair and matching eyes set in an oval face. No visible distinguishing marks, nor anything to pick the woman out of a crowd. Except when one remembered how loud she could shout. For a brief moment, he managed to take in her clothing, which wasn't the store's casual uniform. Dressed in a simple shirt and pants, it almost looked as if she had come in on her day off. But he would have sworn this woman _never_ had a day off in her life. Not that he remembered.

"Jesus… Gil? Gil _Grissom_?" The woman's voice had grown quiet, losing the hard edge and gaining a watery waver. He couldn't blame her.

"Hello Rachel…"

* * *

**A/N**: Well, this should be fun! First fic _ever_, so don't smack me too hard if I get something wrong, 'kay? Spoilers are through Season Three or so, which isn't much of anything storyline wise. Yes? Exactly.

Disclaimer: Nope, don't own CSI, nor do I own NBC or any of its affiliates. If I did, do you think I'd be writing about it online? Yeah, didn't think so.


	2. Chapter 2

"Friend of yours?"

Grissom frowned, refusing to pause during his collection of the glass pieces from a smashed bottle in order to answer Jim. He disliked interruptions; they could bring about improper collecting of the evidence, and distract a person from the task at hand. Only once the last shard was carefully tucked inside a small vial, did he turn to regard the man.

Sometimes, it felt as if Jim Brass hadn't changed over the years. Always a hard ass, and unforgiving when it came to protocol, he had been a silent figure in all their lives on the night shift. Well, usually silent. But then Grissom had to remind himself of all the terrible one-liners Brass could come up with in the worst situations. Even so, the man had a nose like a bloodhound, with his uncanny ability to procure a suspect from thin air. He wondered what else Jim could pull out of his hat.

"A long time ago," Gil finally replied, bagging and tagging the evidence before moving on to the counter. It almost felt like a formality at this point when he began to dust for prints, but he wasn't about to do a slap-shod job of it here. Not where _she_ was involved.

"Ooh, do we get to hear about the infamous Gil Grissom's life prior to the Las Vegas crime lab?" Casting a sidelong glance at the man, he silently shook his head. Where did Brass find that particular brand of wit? A Crackerjack box? "Probably not. Hey! I wonder what sort of stories she could tell us…"

"Jim. Don't." Grissom's quiet answer was ground out between his teeth, which took a great deal of concentration. No, it really did. Don't breathe on the dust that would coat everything, don't inhale it either, lift the print carefully, and refuse to smack the Captain hovering over your shoulder. Brass _knew_ he hated that, especially when there was no reason for it!

"I think this is the most worked up I've ever seen you, Grissom!" How long would it take for the smirk to appear? Three, two, one… Right on cue, apparently. But he refused to bang his head against the conveniently located counter. Nor would he give Brass the satisfaction of getting beneath his skin. He'd never hear the end of it! "Are you _twitching_?"

"I do not twitch," Grissom muttered, silently praying that the fluttering of his eyelid would go unnoticed. "Don't you have anything better to do than hover over my shoulder?" He immediately regretted the question as soon as it popped out of his mouth. Not because he was being peevish, oh no; more to the fact that he'd never live this one down. Not for a long time. That in itself was good enough reason to close his field kit with a bit of excessive force.

"No, not really." Jim's grin returned in full force as he watched Gil pack up. "I've put out an APB on the suspect. A few of the beat cops know him, typical tale. Rap sheet as long as your arm, mainly petty theft. Boy thought he was probably stepping into the big leagues with this place." Odd how someone could place so much distaste in a few words and a significantly placed glance. Even stranger when Grissom wanted nothing more than to wipe that look off Brass' face. "Regardless, he'll be in by the end of shift. You're just icing on the cake."

"Good." Surprisingly, Gil found that he _meant_ it. And not about being a sugary confectionary, either. "I'm heading back to the lab. Keep me up to date."

"Wait wait!" _Oh please God, don't let him do this…_ "Aren't you going to get the victim's recount of the crime?" _Crap._ "I could always have one of the boys do it, but I know how much you hate that…"

"Fine," Grissom issued with a pent-up sigh, craning his neck toward the few cop cars that were still huddled together. Seated in the back of one, with her legs hanging out of the open door, was _her_. Why did he want to avoid her so badly? Rachel and Alex had been good friends of his. But that had been a different part of his life, years ago, and he had kissed it goodbye. At least, he had hoped so.

With case in hand, and ignoring a snicker from Brass, Grissom didn't quite march over to the squad car; but there was a definite reluctance in his steps. Even in his stance. Rachel was sipping from a Styrofoam cup, likely some of the coffee that had been set on the burner inside. She seemed… withdrawn. Not the outgoing woman that he remembered from all those years ago. It felt like losing her husband had crushed the woman's spirit. But still, she moved on. Why? And why _here_, of all places?

"Rachel," he finally murmured, squatting down beside the police cruiser so she wouldn't have to crane her neck. He knew he was supposed to be questioning her, but he couldn't do that. Not just yet. Once again, _why_?

"Gil," she murmured with a slight smile, causing her cheeks to dimple. Alex had always said that was one of her more endearing qualities; aside from having the will of some beastly animal. "You look… good." With her reluctance, and the bald-faced lie, he quirked a disbelieving brow. "You've definitely changed."

"Hmm? How so?" Grissom queried, wondering why he had even bothered to ask.

"Well…" Pausing, Rachel gave a mirthless laugh, reaching out to tug on his short hair. "When did you get so old? I remember putting those first few gray hairs on your head, personally." With her surfacing grin, mischievous in the least, Gil couldn't help but give a half-hearted chuckle. "How's my favorite entomologist been?"

"Fine…" The response came a little too quickly, and she mimicked his lofting brow, head canted to the side. "No, really." There went the other brow, and he shook his head. "Don't worry yourself over me. Now, what happened earlier—"

"You really haven't changed, have you?" Grissom met the woman's hard look, matching stare for stare. A few of the officers found this far more interesting than hanging about a defunct crime scene, and continued to observe the festivities. "I suppose neither of us have," Rachel quietly murmured after some time. "Fine. I was fixing to close up for the night, and had already deposited the money into the safe. He came in for a cup of coffee, paid for it, and then demanded all the money out of the drawer once it was opened."

"How much did money did he managed to get?"

"Thirty dollars or so," Rachel stated with a wry grin. "The floor safe was covered by the mat, so he couldn't see it." Pausing in her telling of the story, the woman frowned, seeming to look beyond Grissom. "The guy only had a Swiss Army knife. I think the corkscrew was pointed at me, instead of that dinky blade. He was more nervous than I was!"

"Hmm…" came the noncommittal answer, writing down a few things in a pocket notebook.

"Are you even listening?" Gil nodded in an absent fashion, causing Rachel to grin once again. "So if I said that the guy waddled like a penguin with a two by four stuck up his ass, you'd note it down?" She watched him scribble for a few moments, stop, and turn his attention to her. "So you _did_ write it down!" Resisting the urge to clap in amused joy, the grin widening sufficed enough.

"And you're still bringing mischievous everywhere you go, I see," Grissom wryly ventured, shaking his head. Patting down a few pockets, he finally procured a small card, and scribbled something on the back. "My cell number is on there, and home phone is on the back. You'll probably have to come back in to fill out a statement, but otherwise…"

"Yeah, I remember. I hate the hurry-up-and-wait game." Giving a put-upon sigh, Rachel twirled the business card between her fingers, absorbed in watching the digits spin about. But Grissom could see she was thinking; about what, he could never tell. Though that was enough for him.

"Listen, I get off around six. Would you like to get some breakfast?" That sounded entirely too much like he was asking her out. So Gil hastily amended, "To catch up on old times." That was a close call.

"Wouldn't that be dinner for you?" She seemed to hum for a moment, drawing it out, obviously just to get beneath his skin. Rachel had always been so good at that, before. But that was then. "Sure, I'd like that."

"Great!" Wincing inwardly, Grissom forced himself to tone down the enthusiasm. "There's a diner near the lab. I'll meet you there, say… Seven?" Receiving Rachel's happy nod, he breathed a quiet sigh of relief. "Right, I need to head back. So I'll see you then." Only when he was favored with the woman's smile, he skirted off towards the Denali with kit in hand.

Once he had packed everything up and climbed behind the wheel, Gil drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. What the hell was he thinking? Meeting up with Rachel after work like it was old times. But it _wasn't_. And, somewhere deep down, that gave a twinge of pain. Alex and Rachel had been his good friends. No matter how much he wished for it, things couldn't go back to the way they had been before. Wait, why was he wishing for _that_?

Frowning, Grissom turned the key in the ignition, driving back to the lab. _And I told myself this would be simple…_

* * *

**A/N:** Ooh, check that out, I actually got a few reviews! Surprise, surprise. That was spiffy.

Usual disclaimer. I don't own CSI, NBC, any of its affiliates, blahblah. Otherwise I'd be rolling in cash, and just manhandling my way into script writing for the show. Until then, this'll have to suffice.


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